Half the people I knew in graduate school were going to write a novel about it. I thought about it myself. No one ever wrote such a book, as far as I know. Everyone used to sniff the air. How morbid! How poisonous! Nothing else like it in the world! But the subject always defeated them. It defied literary exploitation. Such a novel would be a study of frustration, but a form of frustration so exquisite, so ineffable, nobody could describe it.[1]
Journalist Tom Wolfe earned his Yale Ph.D. in 1957, a decade when early twentieth century stereotypes of doctoral students were still pervasive. Undergraduates saw us as “weenies” and “nerds,” another Yale Ph.D. student recalled, “and in the fifties we pretty much accepted this judgment.”[2] Yale’s President, A. Whitney Griswold, hoped to change that judgment. Dismayed that only fifteen to twenty Yale seniors stayed in New Haven for doctoral work, Griswold wanted to recruit outstanding seniors undecided on their careers. The faculty would recommend “the very highest type of young man” who had “brains, imagination, integrity, and personality.” As Assistant Instructors for one year, they would teach two classes and enroll in one seminar, earning a stipend more than 50% higher than a Ph.D student’s $2,400 teaching assistantship. Business recruits aggressively; so should higher education, Griswold told the Carnegie Corporation, the foundation that funded the program. Academia needs “first-class human beings,” a Yale professor argued. They are better teachers than the “narrow and limited scholar types.”[3]
I read about Griswold’s program by chance—the archival materials I planned to see at Columbia University were temporarily closed—but his initiative fascinated me. What explained the desire to recruit young gentlemen rather than focus solely on academic excellence? How widespread was the concern that too many doctoral students were not “first-class human beings”? And what changed over time—why did lamentations about the defective personalities of graduate students diminish in the late twentieth century?
So I decided to explore the evolution of popular impressions of doctoral students across the twentieth century. What follows is a sketch of this vast topic, first thoughts on a neglected subject that deserves a monograph with detailed case studies of various universities. But until then, here is a snapshot, focused on how the image of doctoral students hinged on how Americans saw the two groups ahead and behind them: faculty and undergraduates.
Early to Mid-Century Trends
Most Ph.D. students wanted a job in a college or university. They aspired to be professors. So it’s not surprising that the stereotype of the American professor shaped the image of their young apprentices. What was the stereotype? Very smart in some ways, they were allegedly inept in others. As one wife said when friends recalled the brilliance of her dead husband, “he knew everything, but that was all he knew.”[4] One professor at Harvard begged a teaching assistant to run to her apartment—she had come to campus without her teeth.[5] A comic strip, The Absent-Minded Professor, mocked incompetence at a wide range of everyday tasks. The derogatory word egghead suggested that intellectuals not only acted but also looked less masculine that other men—softer, rounder, more delicate.[6]
Furthermore, Ph.D. students suffered unflattering comparisons to undergraduates. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, respect for undergraduates increased. Colleges offered unprecedented opportunities for varsity sports, fraternity membership, and extracurricular pursuits. Rather than criticize those activities, most Americans praised them as excellent preparation for adult careers.[7]
“There was no fiercer competition in the business world than the undergraduate competition for social rewards,” one Yale graduate wrote.[8] A busy life outside the classroom sharpened the leadership skills of able young men.
In those years, doctoral programs stayed focused on academics. A well-rounded life was less important than concentrating on what mattered most: first rate research. Extracurricular activities and competitive athletics were fine—for the undergraduates. The best-known campus indifferent to clubs and sports, the University of Chicago, was the rare place welcoming freshmen who resembled doctoral students: “He must have read and pondered esoteric things far beyond his years. He draws a sharp breath when reference is made to Aristotle, St. Thomas, John Donne, and James Joyce. He wears glasses, does not dance, deplores sports…as one college counselor phrased it to me, “It simply does not occur to any of our normal students to go to the University of Chicago.”[9]
Unlike the convivial undergraduate, the diligent graduate student was often alone. Memories of solitude recur in many autobiographies. For example, historian James Banner felt isolated at Columbia University and yearned for “an extension into graduate school of the often-comforting instruction, friendships, and experiences of collegiate life.”[10] Jane Tompkins tried socializing by not studying two weekends in her first semester, and fell so far behind she never did that again.[11] Teamwork in a science lab could reduce isolation, but in the library stacks “no human voice is heard; the only constant is that very special smell of decaying books.”[12]
Unlike Tompkins, some students knew the long hours alone would soon end—they raced through the program as fast as possible so they could get married. Woodrow Wilson, Frederick Jackson Turner, and John Hope Franklin left their future wives, studied around the clock, graduated quickly, and then married.[13] On the other hand, the large brigade of unmarried doctoral students marked the Ph.D.as a rejection of the customary path to adulthood—marriage and children as soon as possible. How strange to prefer the life of the mind over domestic bliss at a time when the average age of marriage was in the early 20s. And what if some of those unmarried students were gay? There is anecdotal evidence that the few openly gay students before the late 1960s were more likely to be in graduate school, perhaps because so many grad students lived off campus.[14]
One path out of loneliness was sharing a house with other doctoral students. Five wonderful roommates were a live saver for Jill Conway. She never felt isolated, especially when she married a Harvard professor before she graduated. But she saw others suffer. “My fellow students, male and female, were mostly not a happy lot,” especially if their advisers were indifferent or hostile. And the staff in the Harvard medical center often assumed that physical ailments indicated psychological problems. To her astonishment, Conway was “interrogated about my sex life when I sought a prescription for my standard migraine medication.”[15] Just before she came to Harvard, the university psychiatrists there concluded that, on balance, graduate students were more neurotic than undergraduates.[16]
How did the early to mid 20th century universities try to improve life for their Ph.D. students? Providing a place for graduate students to mingle was one solution. In the early 1920s, over 700 graduate students at the University of Chicago petitioned for a “clubhouse” where they could gather (fewer than one in five lived on campus then).[17] But “the university had a benevolently hands-off attitude toward student life,” according to John Boyer’s meticulous history, and the plans for the clubhouse was shelved when the Depression began.[18] The same proposal surfaced at the University of Pennsylvania in 1957. The “grimly independent life” of its doctoral students called for a student center along the lines of what the Wharton School M.B.A. students had. With so many off-campus and part-time students, the commuters would otherwise only see each other in the evenings in dark classrooms “inch-deep with the debris left by undergraduate cigarette-smokers, gum-chewers, and newspaper readers.”[19] This center was built…but not until 2001.
Far less expensive were informal gatherings. In an age when more faculty socialized with students off campus, professors would sometimes invite graduate students to their houses for an end-of-semester dinner or Sunday afternoon tea (which Harvard’s Arthur Schlesinger Sr. did every week).[20]
The students might form study groups or create clubs, with both focused far more on work than recreation. The British custom of an hour together every day was adopted at Princeton, where the afternoon teas in the math department were “heaven for the shy, friendless, and socially awkward, a category in which many of these young men belonged.” Yet the hour was often competitive as well as friendly, especially when future Nobel Prize winner John Nash attended. Brash, talkative, moody, Nash (nicknamed Gnash) had “a social I.Q. of 12,” another student said.[21] And when Nash later taught at M.I.T., some math students there liked their reputation as eccentric. It was a sign of their genius.
Princeton led the way in trying interventions that might refine the character of doctoral students. Afternoon teas were not enough. The Dean of the graduate school wanted Princeton students to live together and also enjoy comfortable privacy–he envisioned a suite for each student—bedroom, private bathroom, and a study with a fireplace—alongside less spacious accommodations for live-in servants. Dinners at 6:30 featured waitresses, white tablecloths, and good china, with every student required to wear his academic gown. “The joy of surroundings that keep him buoyant means doubling and trebling his power.” It wasn’t just intellectual power. What aspiring faculty needed was “liberal culture”—breadth of knowledge and impeccable social skills—because graduate students, sadly, “as a class are not as strong and interesting personally as the run of a senior class.”[22] The new Graduate College (open in 1913) offered gracious (but not lavish) accommodations, but it is noteworthy that many undergraduates thought the building, with only single men, was a monastery, not an extension of familiar undergraduate amenities.
Princeton assumed that life together in attractive buildings would improve the character of doctoral students, but what if cultivated gentlemen formed their admirable traits much earlier? If schools of all kinds needed what one headmaster called the “high-minded, well-rounded and well-bred individual who knows something about life and living,” maybe the solution was better recruitment.[23]
Find and admit those who were already well-rounded. Selection rather than surroundings might identify the missing elite. But the result would have been empty seats in the seminars. Before the 1960s the most selective programs admitted approximately half of the applicants; lesser programs took far more.[24]
The academic career was not attractive enough to let university departments admit only gentlemen. And so graduate programs rarely tried to evaluate the candidates’ personalities (unlike many undergraduate admissions committees), nor did they require face-to-face interviews (unlike most medical schools). Princeton was unusual—most faculty on most campuses cared more about their doctoral students’ minds than their manners. The unfortunate result, according to Harvard’s director of admissions, was “a lot of singularly unimpressive human beings in the crop which enters each year.”[25]
By mid-century graduate schools realized that special efforts over and above, not in place of, regular admissions could be helpful. The first major innovation was the G.I. Bill of 1944. Thousands of veterans used that generous federal law to pursue a Ph.D. Several years in uniform was no guarantee of psychological health, but it signaled enough maturity and self-discipline to face the challenges of graduate school. The G.I. students, on balance, fell short of the liberal culture glorified by Princeton, but they seemed reassuringly normal, well-adjusted, and heterosexual.[26]
Another infusion came from post-World War II fellowships for academically talented seniors who also had “the highest qualities of personality and character,” as one professor described the Woodrow Wilson recipients.[27] Candidates were nominated by faculty and an interview was required. In like fashion, the Danforth fellowship boards considered personality in making their awards. Both prizes would create a top tier of graduate students with valuable assets other than brains.
For the ideal scholar, it was never clear which personal strengths would enhance an academic career. Ph.D. programs rarely paid attention to teaching and service, the two parts of faculty life where a great personality could make a considerable difference. The relationship between good character and excellent research was rarely explored. One historian who tried to do so faced sharp criticism. In 1963, Carl Bridenbaugh lamented the number of “urban-bred” colleagues from “lower middle class or foreign origins.” As such “they find themselves in a very real sense outsiders on our past and feel themselves shut out.” He went so far as to claim it would be “impossible” for those historians to do their job, and as a result graduate schools should require each applicant to show “evidence of a broad and ranging general culture.” His speech was interpreted and denounced as anti-Semitic, a deplorable swipe at the growing number of Jewish historians.[28]
The same speech 30 or 40 years earlier might have been well-received. Many departments then hesitated to hire Jews unless the letters of recommendations explicitly said the candidate “is not of the offensive type” or “is a Jew, though not the kind to which one takes exception.”[29] Seeking men of liberal culture could be a code for anti-Semitism, but by the 1960s that prejudice was far less common than it had been. Tolerance of another kind from the mid-1960s on also softened the old view of graduate students as strange—women who pursued PhDs were no longer suspect. Before then, many professors assumed that the psychologically wholesome women would abandon their careers to marry and raise children, either in graduate school or soon thereafter. Only the less well-adjusted would want to stay.[30]
Less prejudice is only part of the story. To return to the claim at the start of this essay: stereotypes of graduate students stem from comparisons to undergraduates and faculty. The next section will sketch several major changes in how Americans perceived both groups.
What Changed in the 1960s and Beyond?
Make the undergraduates more like graduate students: that was one momentous shift in elite universities in the 1960s. Remarkable academic talent should be the major consideration in undergraduate admissions. Harvard, Yale, Princeton and other elite schools knew that the nature of leadership in America was changing. To be outstanding in most pursuits required strong analytical skills. For a successful career, expertise outweighed family background, old money, gracious manners, athletic prowess, or notions of good character that favored certain economic, ethnic, and religious groups. Pedigree began to matter less and less. Merit meant achievement, not good breeding or personal charm, by the 1960s. As one historian put it, “success based on inherited privileges could no longer be counted on”; knowledge and ability more than background became the keys to upward mobility.
The alumni argument that leaders would continue to come from “fine old families whose sons have gone to Yale for many generations and come from prep schools…with B and C averages and fine citizenship records” was challenged. “If Yale depended too much on past definitions of success, it might find itself without its share of leaders.”[31]
And so at Yale, the faculty recommended the admission of more “bright rebels” and “creative intellectuals.” They acknowledged that the very talented are “not always pleasant” and could bring “more drop-outs, more beards, more complainers.” An alum from 1936 wrote in 1969, “the cheerful prep-school boys in tweed coats who once dominated the Yale campus have been replaced by brilliant high school radicals with scraggly beards.”[32] He overstated the change, but there was no denying that more and more undergraduates put academics ahead of sports, clubs, and parties. When one alum heard that Yale students had no slang for weenies by 1970, he was stunned: “In that case, they’re all weenies.”[33] Like the Ph.D. weenies, they focused on vocational goals—hard work and high grades would pay off in a good career. Throughout the past 50 years, that pattern continued as job security became more and more important to undergraduates.
The undergraduate/Ph.D. distinctions also blurred as more and more undergraduates had mental health issues (or were at least more willing to seek help than in the past). The notion that undergraduates were better adjusted than doctoral students faded as the young acknowledged a higher, not lower, frequency of serious challenges like date rape, substance abuse, and self-mutilation. By the early 21st century, an undergraduate was slightly more likely to feel hopeless, exhausted, sad, overwhelmed, or lonely than the graduate students.[34]
Equally crucial, the image of professors improved. Salaries rose faster than inflation in the 1960s, with more bidding wars among the richest universities in search of wicksuls, the shorthand at one campus for World Class Scholarly Leaders.[35] The research grants from the federal government, especially for scientists but also for many social scientists, paid for laboratories, travel, post-doctoral fellows, and summer stipends. Fewer assistant professors “took all the extra jobs that came their way” or bought second-hand clothes sold by rich undergraduates, two budget-savers Alvin Kernan noticed at Yale in the 1950s.[36] Teaching loads began to shrink—the standard three courses per term at the best schools fell to two, with even lighter loads for the principal investigators on large grants.
Furthermore, the second and third tier schools began to expect and then require publication for promotion and tenure, which meant that more faculty were productive. Earlier in the century, many professors never published anything after finishing the dissertation. Academic careers became more rigorous, more prestigious, and more desirable —the number of new PhDs exceeded the vacancies nearly every year since 1970.
So doctoral students were less likely to suffer the early to mid-twentieth century contrasts with admirable undergraduates (such fine young gentlemen!) and comparisons to eccentric faculty (“a kind of amiable lunatic who knew far more than anybody ought to know about things that didn’t matter much”).[37]
Then what explains the recent spate of articles about the precarious mental health of graduate students? Is it a resurgence of the concerns expressed in the early to mid-twentieth century?
What’s different now is the claim that the incoming students are in good shape.[38] The culprit is not a penchant by weirdoes to seek a Ph.D. Instead, the challenge is how doctoral programs can unhinge otherwise stable young men and women.
The major ailments reported by various studies are depression, anxiety, and stress, not neuroses
or personality disorders.[39] In a tight job market where adjuncts can be hired cheaply, the odds of finding a tenure track job at a research university are slim. To win one of the scarce prizes requires an exceptionally good dissertation, which can extend graduate school by a year or two. In many fields, several more years for a post-doc are now standard, unlike 50 years ago. “Competition is now so keen that it has become unhealthy for all,” one scientist concluded.[40]
“Lethal Chemistry at Harvard” poignantly described the pressure to write a fantastic dissertation. A 1998 feature article in The New York Times Magazine tried to explain why a 26-year-old chemistry student drank cyanide. Jason Altom began the program in good shape–outgoing, confident, mature, humorous. He undertook an ambitious dissertation—synthesizing a complex molecule that combines two smaller compounds. He completed the work on each part of the molecule but stumbled on the bond connecting them. Jason could have turned in the work on either compound for his Ph.D. but he wanted “to be certain his graduate career would be recognized as notable.”[41]
One bright note was the set of changes adopted in the chemistry department after his death—a Quality of Life committee, lectures on careers outside academia, more social events, and larger thesis committees to reduce the power of the primary adviser. The goal was not the early 20th century desire to cultivate gentlemen—inner peace matters more now than the old premium on social skills. On many other campuses there are similar efforts to do more than offer a few therapy sessions—meditation workshops, peer counseling, mental health committees. Rather than heap all the blame on the students, programs try to be more humane and less austere. One study comparing “completers” and “non-completers” emphasized the importance of the department culture—the more opportunities to join a supportive community, the better.[42] But until the job market improves or the dissertation changes, the pressure to do extraordinary work will probably continue. The occasional testimonial that celebrates the pleasure of doctoral work[43] is scarcer than the cautionary tales of stress.
Dr. Robert L. Hampel is a professor emeritus in the School of Education at the University of Delaware and a historian of education who also studies contemporary educational policy. In December 2017, Dr. Hampel published Fast and Curious: A History of Shortcuts in American Education, a book on “shortcuts to learning” or the legitimate and bogus ways to make education (or its illusion) both faster and easier.
[1] Tom Wolfe, “The Birth of the New Journalism” in New York magazine, February 14, 1972, p1.
[2] Alvin Kernan, In Plato’s Cave (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), p67.
[3] “A Proposal for Teaching Fellowships in Yale College” 11/18/1957 and 12/20/1957 drafts; George Pierson to Richard C. Carroll [Associate Dean, Yale College], 3/7/1960, in Yale University Experimental Program of Teaching Fellowships, Box 892, folder 3, Carnegie Corporation Papers, Columbia University Rare Book and Manuscript Library.
[4] Story told by Professor Robert R. Palmer, Fall 1970, undergraduate seminar, Yale University.
[5] Hannah Gray, An Academic Life: A Memoir (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018), p140.
[6] Aaron Lecklider, Inventing the Egghead: The Battle over Brainpower in American Culture (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), Ch. 7.
[7] Daniel A. Clark, Creating the College Man: American Mass Magazines and Middle-Class Manhood, 1890-1915 (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 2010); Helen Lefkowitz Horowitz, Campus Life: Undergraduate Cultures from the End of the 18th Century to the Present (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), Ch. 2.
[8] Henry S. Canby, Alma Mater: The Gothic Age of the American College (New York: Farrar and Rinehart, 1936), p73.
[9] Lawrence Kimpton (Chancellor, University of Chicago), January 13, 1954 in William M. Murphy and D.J.R. Bruckner, eds., The Idea of the University of Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), p163.
[10] James M. Banner Jr. and John R. Gillis, eds., Becoming Historians (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), p274. The words graduate student in this paper refer to Ph.D. students, not masters, law, medical, or other advanced students.
[11] Jane Tompkins, A Life in School: What the Teacher Learned (Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley Publishing, 1996), 80.
[12] Henry Rosovsky, The University: An Owner’s Manual (New York: W.W. Norton, 1990), p153.
[13] Arthur S. Link, ed., The Papers of Woodrow Wilson (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), vol. 4; Ray Allen Billington, Frederick Jackson Turner: Historian, Scholar, Teacher (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973), Ch. 3; John Hope Franklin, Mirror to America (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005), Chs. 6-7.
[14] Patrick Dilley, Queer Man on Campus: A History of Non-Heterosexual College Men, 1945-2000 (Routledge Falmer: New York, 2002); Martin Duberman, About Time: Exploring the Gay Past (Village Station, NY: Gay Presses of New York, 1986), pp343-378; Paul Robinson, “Becoming a Gay Historian” in Banner and Gillis, Becoming Historians, 229-258.
[15] Jill Kerr Conway, True North (New York: Knopf, 1994), 29, 22.
[16] Robert L. Nelson, “Psychiatric Needs of Graduate Students” in The School Review v67, n1, Spring 1959, 93-105. Anxiety and depression were the most common ailments.
[17] “Report on the Graduate Schools” [1924], p71, in Box 47, folder 7, Office of the Presidents– Harper, Judson and Burton Administrative Records, 1869-1925, University of Chicago Archives.
[18] John W. Boyer, The University of Chicago: A History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), p210.
[19] Hayward Keniston, “Graduate Study in the Humanities” (December 1957, mimeographed report, University of Pennsylvania, December 1957), p81.
[20] Richard W. Leopold, “Not Merely High Scholarship but High Character and Personality: The Harvard History Department a Half-Century Ago” in Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society v95 (1983), p121.
[21] Sylvia Nasar, A Beautiful Mind (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1998), pp64, 101.
[22] Willard Thorp et. al., The Princeton Graduate School: A History (Princeton: Association of Princeton Graduate Alumni, 2000), pp160, 70. For similar sentiments at Yale, see Edgar S. Furniss, The Graduate School of Yale: A Brief History (New Haven: Carl Rollins, 1965), p108.
[23] Arthur G. Powell, The Uncertain Profession: Harvard and the Search for Educational Authority (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), p231.
[24] Bernard Berelson, Graduate Education in the United States (New York: McGraw Hill, 1960), p144; Leonard Cassuto, The Graduate School Mess: What Caused It and How We Can Fix It (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2015), pp38-45.
[25] Jerome Karabel, The Chosen: The Hidden History of Admission and Exclusion at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2005), p284. Undergraduate admissions with sole reference to grades and test scores would yield “a dangerously high incidence of emotional problems, of breakdowns and suicides” with “a high proportion of rather precious, brittle types, intellectuals in quotes, beatniks, etc.” (p280) Wilbur Bender oversaw undergraduate admissions from 1952 to 1960.
[26] For G.I.s at Harvard, see Paul Fussell, Doing Battle: The Making of a Skeptic (Boston: Little, Brown, 1996), pp188-203. For the University of Chicago, see Norman A. Graebner, A Twentieth-Century Odyssey: Memoir of a Life in Academe (Claremont CA: Regina Books, 2002), p119. For a good overview, see Glenn C. Altschuler and Stuart M. Blumin, The G.I. Bill: A New Deal for Veterans (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), Ch. 4.
[27] Whitney Oakes, “Recruiting for an Academic Career” in Princeton Alumni Weekly, March 14, 1947, p5.
[28] Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: The “Objectivity Question” and the American Historical Profession (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp339-340.
[29] Ibid., pp172-173.
[30] Elaine Pagels, Why Religion? (New York: Harper Collins, 2018), pp20-26.
[31] Geoffrey Kabaservice, The Guardians: Kingman Brewster, His Circle, and the Rise of the Liberal Establishment (New York: Henry Holt, 2004), p289.
[32] Karabel, The Chosen, pp367-368.
[33] Calvin Trillin, Remembering Denny (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1993), p64. It would be interesting to chart the growth of research opportunities for undergraduates, during the year as well as in the summer. This trend contributed to blurring the distinctions between undergraduate and graduate students.
[34] Tammy Wyatt and Sara B. Oswalt, “Comparing Mental Health Issues Among Undergraduate and Graduate Students” in American Journal of Health Education, v44, n2, 2013, pp96-107.
[35] Richard L. McCormick, Raised at Rutgers: A President’s Story (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2014), p43.
[36] Kernan, In Plato’s Cave , pp91-92. “Auto repairs or dental work always brought a crisis.”
[37] Lawrence Kimpton, January 8, 1958 in The Idea of the University of Chicago, p51. For comments on early 20th century faculty as “perturbed souls,” see David Damrosch, We Scholars: Changing the Culture of the University (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), p78.
[38] Julie R. Posselt, Inside Graduate Admissions (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2016). Posselt found that “quirkiness” could be an advantage, not a handicap, although the focus was on intellectual virtues (curiosity, passion, creativity) rather than personality. pp57, 104-106.
[39] Teresa M. Evans et. al., “Evidence for a mental health crisis in graduate education” in Nature Biotechnology (36) 2018, 282-284; Te-Erika Patterson, “Why do so many graduate students quit?” in The Atlantic, July 6, 2016.
[40] Stuart Rojstaczer, Gone for Good: Tales of University Life after the Golden Age (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), p102. In
[41] Stephen S. Hall, “Lethal Chemistry at Harvard” in The New York Times Magazine November 29, 1998, pp120–128.
[42] Barbara E. Lovitts, Leaving the Ivory Tower (Lanham MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2001).
[43] Briallen Hopper, “On Enjoying Grad School” in Chronicle of Higher Education, January 20, 2019. She emphasized supportive advisers, interesting classmates, and minimal financial woes.